


Bluebird, Blackbird

by sElkieNight60



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Young Justice
Genre: Also they're both emotionally stunted, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Boys don't cry ya know and all that jazz, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, DaddyBats, Dick Grayson Whump, Dick Grayson is Robin, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Parent Bruce Wayne, Protective Bruce Wayne, Se.N, Whump, bat dad, dad!bats, slightly OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 12:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19209235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: After the events of the Science Museum's collapse, Dick's feeling a little hurt by Bruce's reaction to it.[This is, essentially, my take on what happened after"Pretend You Don't Exist"by LunarBlade. All my thanks to them for the inspiration and permission to post this.] (Please read the original work first!)





	Bluebird, Blackbird

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pretend You Don't Exist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6588592) by [LunarBlade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunarBlade/pseuds/LunarBlade). 



> Welcome to the Angst Show! (This is also my first work in the Archive, yay!)
> 
> My thanks to LunarBlade for giving me permission to post this and for inspiring me to write it in the first place. I'm sorry if I made your interpretation of these characters very OOC hahaha.

For some time, Dick drifted in and out of the space between sleep and wakefulness. It was a nebulous place, ill-defined and vague, but suspended there he didn't have to think or feel―he didn't have to exist. The darkness would beckon him back like an inky ocean whenever he happened to crawl too far into the waking world, washing over him and dragging him under its heavy waters again and again, where everything felt duller and painless.

It was easy to not exist, actually, it was kind of nice.

Nobody here needed him. There were no friends to worry for, no team members to protect, no mentors to disappoint. It was a lifeless existence. Subsisting here forever would be irresponsible, but a small, secretive part of him desperately wanted to stay.

However, at some point, the waters that kept him numb started to recede and pinpricks of discomfort started to make themselves known. It was just his shoulder at first, and then his side… he tried to think back, to remember, but his head was fuzzy and it buzzed with indistinguishable white noise… Somebody must have let loose a jar filled with bees inside his head. He didn't know who would do such a thing yet, but he suspected Wally.

A sound to his left was the eventual catalyst for full consciousness―the soft noise rather jarring against the strangely soothing buzzing bees―but from the very second his eyes began protesting their opening, the memories flooded back in: … _the argument with his mentor over breakfast, the silent strolling through the geology exhibit alongside Wally who walked with solidarity and understanding, the building coming down after the explosion that wasn't really an explosion, shoving Wally out the window without thinking, the ceiling pinning him to the ground, the rain and the cold, the broken fingers, the waiting and_ _the waiting and the_ endless waiting _._ _T_ _hen_ _t_ _he_ _t_ _eam:_ _Aqualad, Artemis, Superboy, Miss Martian and_ _Kid Flash_ _,_ _h_ _overing over him with varying looks of worry and concern, and_ _then appearing_ _next to them, a large, emotionally constipated, overgrown bat with personality problems and anger issues._ The last thing he remembered before passing out in the Batmobile was seeing two sections of pipe sticking out of him quite unnaturally and unnervingly.

Dick took a deep breath and counted to ten, briefly squeezing his eyes shut again against the inescapable bright light that quickly became all-encompassing. The little Robin started to take stock of himself by wiggling his toes experimentally and he almost laughed with relief when he found he could still feel them all, despite the spike of discomfort that ran down his leg at the motion. He was about to move on to his fingers next, when a squeeze to his good hand informed him that the action had attracted attention.

“Hey there…” the voice was soft, distant, floaty, but Dick focused in on it, wading through what was left of the haze in his brain until his eyes once again complied with order to open. For his efforts he was eventually rewarded, eyelids dragging upwards groggily. “Welcome back, chum.”

Batman.

_Bruce._

Oddly enough, it was the little things Dick noticed about the man first. The tiny crease in his brow―a peculiar display of emotion from the usually stoic man, the soft brush of his fingertips against Dick's wrist as he retracted his hand, the dark circles under his eyes as though he'd had no sleep, the barest hint of relief behind the cool façade…

“You found me.” The words escaped his mouth with a happy sigh before Dick could check them on the way out, a smile stealing at the corners of his mouth. They were barely intelligible, all slurred together, but the older man understood them well enough and seemed to age from the weight of them alone.

Bruce's face obtained a pinched look.

“'Course we did.” He muttered quietly back. If Dick didn't know any better, he would've sworn he heard emotion behind those words, but he chalked it up to whatever drugs were still in his system and let it go. “Your team is very efficient and they care for you a great deal.”

Dick reflected on that a moment. His team really _did_ care. They'd searched tirelessly and Wally had been beside himself when Batman had given the order not to change their method of search and rescue. Robin was low priority (see: _last priority_ ) next to the panicking civilians, but their worry had touched him nonetheless. Listening to them chat amongst themselves and pitching in his two cents every now and again―despite knowing no one could hear him―had really stopped him from going insane trapped inside his tomb of debris.

“I know,” he croaked back, the slurring in his words hardly improving. “I could hear you all over comms.” And then after a pause he added, “It was… nice. I knew I wasn't alone.”

Bruce huffed as he sat back in his chair and, though that was the extent of the outburst, the small action stung rather unexpectedly. As though perhaps the bees had migrated from his head to his chest. Dick tried _really_ hard not take it to heart―it was Bruce after all―but it was difficult not to, especially given everything that had transpired in the last forty-eight hours. Could the man give even _some_ indication he was glad Robin was alive. Dick knew that somewhere deep down Bruce _did_ care, he did. It just would be nice if he showed it sometimes.

It was surprising then when his mentor broke the silence and said, “Then you know why we need to talk.”

The little Robin swallowed hard and the pinched look Bruce's expression had previously acquired turned sharper and harsher as an edge entered his voice. If he didn't know any better, Dick would have said he sounded _angry_.

“You worried Alfred,” his guardian began, obviously unimpressed. “You worried your team. Wallace is a Meta-Human. A Speedster, no less. You are just an ordinary boy. He could have gotten out without your assistance.” The last word was said with what Dick could only imagine was disapproval, but Batman wasn't done―because this was undoubtedly Batman speaking. It was the same tone of voice he used when Robin _really_ screwed-up on patrol. “By deliberately placing yourself in danger you did a disservice to your team and your friends. They were all greatly concerned for your welfare and it distracted them from the mission at hand.”

Bruce looked tenser than before, drawn and more worn as he stiffened and continued, “You should have been more careful.”

Even as he tried desperately to ignore it, the little bird knew that the new hurt blossoming in his chest had nothing to do with his injuries, though it pained him almost as much. Dick was a game of Jenga and Bruce the only player. With each word, his guardian left a new hole inside heart and the Robin knew it was only a matter of time before he collapsed under the weight of it all.

In the end he couldn't help it. The snappy come-back turned sour on his tongue and came out small and strained rather than sharp and prideful as it was intended to. “… And you?” the little bird finally chirped. He held his heart in his hands, willing the other man to take it. He wanted to say, _be gentle with me, be gentle with my heart_ , but Batman wasn't gentle. He was ruthless and efficient, and they were qualities he expected from everyone and everything, most especially from his young protégé.

The only sign of Bruce's surprise was the tiniest twitch in his eyebrow, “What about me?” the other man said back, a piercing gaze accompanying the words that anyone else would have translated as vexation, though to Robin it was just well-concealed confusion. Batman was very good at hiding his expressions, but the young man had lived with him too long not to have become a master at deciphering them.

Dick immediately regretted his mistake. He never should have said that. He didn't want to know the answer. He feared it, in fact. The words Artemis had spoken earlier during the mission rang through his mind as clear as a bell, _“_ _Poor bastard,”_ _s_ he'd said, the words buzzing through the comm in his ear as the team had gossiped and speculated on Batman's relationship with Robin. _“_ _Better no father at all than being treated like that!”_

The pause between them dragged on long enough that, for a moment, he started to wonder if maybe she was right. The bitterness on his tongue glued his mouth closed, but the fear turned the inside to sandpaper and dust.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Bruce finally snapped, sounding irritated and looking awfully tired and annoyed at his self-imposed silence. The words came out harsher than they were probably intended to, or so the little Robin convinced himself.

“Nothing.” Dick answered quietly, pathetically, dropping his head. It was better to pretend, of course it was. It was what Bruce wanted anyhow. Pretend the bullies didn't exist, pretend he was fine trapped under all that rubble, pretend he was _fine_ with the state of their relationship… even if he wasn't. ( _Last priority, always last priority_ ). If he didn't ask any direct questions he wouldn't get any direct answers, and he could just pretend that the man cared for him instead of shattering the illusion he held up to his face like a mirror. Because he loved Bruce, he did, and Dick wanted his love in return, but the man was often cold and unfeeling and calculating. Wringing affection from him was like trying to milk blood from a stone.

So Robin pretended. He pretended all the time.

He held the mirror up to Batman and more often that not what he saw was a reflection of his own love for him, not the genuine affection Bruce guarded so closely. Dick had always convinced himself he was fine with it and every tiny sign of approval, every lingering touch he hoarded away deep inside himself where he buried his treasures like a dragon guarding gold.

Batman could crush him. _Bruce_ could crush him. In Gotham Robin was free. He soared over rooftops and danced down alleyways, but at the same time he was a caged bird, trapped by his affection for the one man who pinned his wings down by dangling love like an unobtainable carrot tied to the end of a stick. And he tried. _God damn it, he tried._ But all he ever did was disappoint him. Even trapped under ten feet of rubble he'd heard the man say it, his agitated voice holding no patience for Robin's immaturity, _“―I'm very disappointed in you_.” Yeah, that summed it up.

A finger curled up under his chin and, in his surprise, Dick jerked his head up, realising only after the fact that Bruce was trying to get him to meet his eyes. The touch lingered there as the dark eyes searched, silently looking for something, though the little bird knew not what.

“Dickie…” his guardian sighed, expression changed from before. His eyes were crinkled at the corners and his mouth was down-turned with an expression that the younger man couldn't name, but there was no doubt he looked… _softer_ somehow. “Chum, of course I was worried,” he said, his weary tone giving away the barest hint of sadness and confusion, finally seeming to understand his young ward's words. “Why on earth would you think I wouldn't have been?”

 _Because Wally seemed more concerned about me than_ you _! Because the mission comes first! Because I'm last priority!_

Dick just shrugged, not trusting himself to speak without his voice cracking or letting out more than intended. He hissed when the movement jostled his shoulder and Bruce adjusted his pillows for him once the pain had subsided to a dull throb. Biting his tongue was the only way to keep his thoughts contained and Bruce could never know these thoughts because they were too childish and petty. They were the selfish part of him that wanted to scream, that wanted to yell, _I'm here! Look at me!_ When there were 149 terrified other people trapped under all that debris too.

However, the man hardly seemed satisfied by the non-verbal answer and he apparently wasn't done with the conversation just yet.

Bruce's calloused fingers lightly smoothed down Dick's unyielding locks, taming them to a degree, and the little Robin melted under his gentle touch, trying hard not to lean into it but already fighting a lost cause. When the man spoke again, the quiet words were barely more than a murmur, but they eased some of the heavy weight off the little bird's chest.

“I was terrified.” Bruce admitted as he combed through the knots in his ward's hair, fingers scratching lightly along his scalp. It was disarming how quickly Dick liquefied into a puddle. “I spent the entire day pretending you were fine because I didn't know what I was going to do if you weren't.” Something akin to grief flashed across his guardian's face, but just as quickly as it appeared it was smuggled away again. The man took a deep breath and recouped himself. “When we pulled all those rocks off you, all that rubble, I wasn't sure what state we'd find you in.”

A smile came easy to Dick's lips as he thought about what a sight he must have made. Pallid and pale―probably made worse by the construction lighting, two massive metal pipes piercing through his torso, holding him in place as the dried blood prevented his bleeding out, the copper rigging precariously suspended overhead, multiple other minor lacerations and bruises. At that point he must've looked like a Hollywood extra featuring in an end-of-the-world movie.

There was a minute of silence between them. “I'm sorry,” the young man said eventually, staring intently at the bedsheets. “For scaring you, I mean.” The fingers scratching along his scalp abruptly stopped, but then resumed a moment later.

“I thought about lots of stuff while I was trapped under there,” Robin continued, a degree of hesitancy creeping into his voice. “I mostly thought that I didn't want our last conversation to have been an argument.” Dick studiously kept his eyes down, examining his injured hand where he'd broken a couple of fingers. It was so very bruised and swollen now, it resembled a plum. “I'm sorry about what I said. I didn't mean it.”

This time the fingers tracing gentle lines along his scalp stopped permanently. Dick immediately mourned their loss, already missing the careful, gentle touch. The little Robin's eyes snapped back to his mentor's face, afraid he'd possibly overstepped somewhere. Bruce didn't like unnecessary displays of anything―they were gratuitous and redundant in his opinion, but instead the calloused hand slid down his cheek until Bruce had his thumb and forefinger wrapped around Dick's chin in a similar manor to before. The melancholic lines on the older man's face appeared to have retreated slightly, though there was still a twinge of something sad lingering in those dark eyes as they met Dick's own.

“I confess,” replied his guardian a moment later, his timbre a gravelly murmur. “I had… similar thoughts after learning from the young Miss Martian that you had been inside the building when it collapsed.” There was solicitude there, concern.

It wasn't exactly an apology, but it was the closest thing to one. The tentative fluttering in his heart gave way to something brighter, touched by the first rays of spring.

“Don't look at me like that.” Bruce sighed, releasing his ward's chin from betwixt his grasp as he sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. Dick struggled to rearrange his face into something more neutral, but the smile could not be wiped from the corners of his mouth entirely, no matter how hard he attempted to wrestle it under control. Bruce's own lips twitched after a moment, but the stoic man was always better at self-control that Dick was. Probably always would be.

A sudden gurgling noise emanated from from the young man's stomach, the sound punctuating the quiet room. His mentor stood, pushing out of the armchair with swift, sure grace and drawing to his full height. “I'll ask Alfred to make you a tray.” He said, no-nonsense, already halfway to the door.

 _You're leaving?_ Dick didn't intend for the words to come out, but they bypassed the firm instruction to stay lodged in his throat. He sounded pathetic. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “You…” _You don't have to stay._ He cleared his throat. “Thanks. For um, the talk.”

The pinched look returned to his guardian's face, but that was the extent of reaction the words received. There was a moment of hesitation where, half-turned towards the door and half-turned toward Dick, Bruce's mouth opened and closed and then opened again. Then, “I'll bring your meal up.”

He stepped out and the little bird heard footsteps retreating down the hall.

Warmth curled inside his chest as a fondness settled there. He sat back against the pillows, smiling. There had been tenderness in those last words, and a sentiment Dick was almost too afraid to put a name to. But it had been there.

Suddenly tired, and knowing Bruce would wake him when he returned, the little bird closed his eyes for a moment and allowed himself to linger in the warm comfort that those words had entwined around his heart. It was like being found all over again. The heaviness on his chest had lifted, and cleared away, his wounds cauterised.

When his guardian returned, he was surely half-dreaming. Because for a moment he could have sworn he felt a gentle touch―a hand sweeping gently through his hair―and a murmur of words that sounded far too much like endearing devotion for it to actually have been Bruce. But Dick turned into the affection nonetheless and with a sigh, finally allowed himself to surrender truly to sleep.


End file.
